


Stayin' Alive

by amonitrate



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonitrate/pseuds/amonitrate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he'd wanted, more than anything, was to settle into his armchair with a warm pot of tea and the newspaper. Alone.</p><p>No such luck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stayin' Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Written for unovis_lj's prompt, which I'm not gonna mention, because it gives away some of the funny. One of my first stabs at humor, and at a Duncan POV.
> 
> originally written between 2001-2006.

The katana was in Duncan’s hand before the warning had a chance to register. Immortal. In his home.  
   
Damn. Friend or foe, he really wasn’t in the mood.  
   
His grip on the hilt relaxed at a cascading hoot of laughter from inside the loft, audible even through the closed doors of the lift as it jolted into place. His typical foes - old enemies and headhunters - weren’t usually so… amused. Duncan flipped the sword so that it rested tucked safely under one arm. Just in case.  
   
He waited for the lift doors to part, jaw set. Good friends were gold in an immortal’s precarious existence, yes; but his friends, mortal and immortal alike, tended toward a curious disregard for closed doors and turned locks. He was forever stumbling over unexpected houseguests. They crawled out of the woodwork like an infestation, demanding attention at the most inopportune moments.  
   
Like this afternoon. What he’d wanted, more than anything, was to settle into his armchair with a warm pot of tea and the newspaper. Alone.  
   
No such luck.  
   
And then he thought maybe he’d imagined the laugh, because he stepped out of the lift to silence. The kitchen still shined spotless, his breakfast dishes dry on the rack. No mingled scents of espresso and Chanel (not Amanda then), no battered motorcycle jacket on the hook (not Richie), and Joe – well, Joe was the exception to the rule. Joe actually knocked. An irony Duncan managed to sidestep for sake of their friendship, even as he appreciated the gesture.  
   
Besides, the sense of presence that lingered, fading with each moment of proximity into a low-level itch between his shoulder blades, heralded a visitor with a longer life-line than Joe Dawson’s. Duncan bit back on the urge to demand the intruder announce himself. If he was wrong and it was Amanda, the humiliation would be… well, knowing Amanda, it would be well worth it.   
   
Even so, Duncan skirted the kitchen island with care, wary of the silence. And then stopped in his tracks, struck dumb.  
   
His unannounced guest lounged on the floor, arms and legs akimbo, bare feet poking out of paint-flecked, frayed-edged cargo pants of dubious origins. He was surrounded by sad, scattered stacks of curling photographs.  Duncan blinked and a few of the images registered as familiar. Very familiar. In fact-  
   
“Hi,” Methos said, peering up at him. “Where’ve you been?”  
   
Duncan’s mouth opened and closed. The twist of Methos’s mouth told him he must be doing a decent impression of a beached guppy. He shut his trap with a click.  
   
“Where have_ I_  been? Where have I _been_?” Methos and Amanda had to share a gene somewhere, far back in their unknown ancestry. In all his 400 years he’d never met anyone else with such sheer talent for leaving him babbling.  Maybe it happened naturally once you hit the big 1,000. Then, that didn’t explain Fitz.  
   
“I’ve been waiting.” Methos shifted, like he was sitting on red ants. Stinging red ants. Good. Wait. Not good. Methos wasn’t uncomfortable. Was Methos even capable of being uncomfortable?  
   
No, Methos was holding back another whoop of laughter. And not trying very hard, at that.  
   
“Waiting for what?” Duncan managed.  
   
Methos eyed the katana, still clamped under Duncan’s arm. “I was bored. Thought I’d drop by and see what you were up to.”  
   
“You were bored? You’ve been AWOL for six months-“  
   
“It hasn’t been that long-“  
   
“And you show up now because you’re bored?”  
   
Methos shrugged. Then a snicker escaped him. His attention flickered to the sword again.  
   
“Well, next time I’ll make sure I’m being hunted down by some neandertal so you’ll have something to do with that Ginsu knife there.”  
   
Duncan thought about throwing up his hands in exasperation, but the sword got in the way of dramatic gestures. Maybe he should put it down. Then again, with Methos around it never hurt to be armed.  
   
Methos sat up, straightened his back – as if better posture would distract Duncan from the mess he’d made with-  
   
Good God. It was worse than he’d – were those _all _of Duncan’s photographs? Methos squirmed, lips pressed thin, clamping down on another burst of hilarity. The movement revealed a leaning tower of empty archival boxes, the lids conspicuously missing.  
   
It was… had the man no boundaries? No sense of personal privacy?  
   
The object of his outrage let out a snigger. Between his thumb and forefinger balanced a snapshot, held by the edges. Ever the scholar - careful of fingerprints despite his shameless plunder.  
   
“What?” Duncan became conscious of his own stance – looming over his intruder, hand on hip, hanging onto the katana like a security blanket.  
   
“You’ve got the wings of heaven on your shoes,” Methos said, apropos of nothing. He couldn’t seem to help himself – his lips parted, the words came out.  From where Duncan stood, he could count all of Methos’s teeth, but he still couldn’t see the image on the photo he held.  
   
“Gimme that.”  
   
Methos didn’t move, but the hand holding the photo trembled. Maybe he was finally intimidated.  
   
Yeah, right.  
   
An unpleasant sound escaped Methos, something between a snort and a cough. He curled around himself, his free hand gripping his stomach. “You’re a dancin man and you just can’t lose.”  
   
“What are you going on about?”  
   
Methos erupted. He rocked forward. He fell to his side. His long body shook and quivered. “Feel the city… breakin,” he gasped between howling gales of laughter. “And everybody shakin…”  
   
Like a gear shifting into place, Duncan recognized the song lyrics. And knew what piece of his past Methos held.

"Lamé, MacLeod?" It didn't even sound like Methos anymore. His cheeks were wet and cherry red, his eyes slitted with mirth "Gold lamé? Tell me you wore this to… blend in. Like… spangly camouflage.” Any coherence Methos had gained dissolved at the last word.  
   
The other immortal didn’t – couldn’t - look up, even when the cold blade of the sword came to rest against the back of his neck.  
   
“So where were _you _in the seventies, Methos?”


End file.
